


caught my heart about one, two times

by nightcalling



Series: every night, every day (how about every lifetime) [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23021974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling
Summary: In an attempt to change the subject, Tom asked, “You like horses?” and immediately felt dumb afterward.Thankfully, Will looked amused. “They’re not bad. Couldn’t get past the smell at first, but you get used to it. Majestic creatures, aren’t they?”“Sure,” Tom concurred, not because he held a strong opinion about horses, but because he was willing to agree with anything Will said.*Or, Tom lives out a romantic comedy because of his big heart and his even bigger tendency to be extremely dense.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: every night, every day (how about every lifetime) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857874
Comments: 28
Kudos: 221





	caught my heart about one, two times

**Author's Note:**

> Some things you may or may not want to know before you read:
> 
> 1) Everything I know about ranches and orchards is from Google and/or my imagination, so take the factual accuracy here with a grain of salt…though it might not matter because not that much of the fic takes place on an actual ranch or orchard?  
> 2) There’s no specific time period for this fic but it’s before when most advanced technology existed.  
> 3) There’s no period-typical homophobia, because I didn’t want there to be.  
> 4) I wrote this with Marrowbone!George (those arms!) and Breathe!Dean (that fluffy hair!) in my mind.  
> 5) Finally, title is from “What a Man Gotta Do” by The Jonas Brothers, because that’s the mood I carried into writing this. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

They’re in the middle of a routine orchard check-up when he brings it up. It’s an early misty morning, before the sun has fully risen.

“Joe,” Tom says, aiming for nonchalant. The air is chilly enough to draw fog from his breath. He stretches out the vowel and lets it peter out before getting to the point. “I don’t think Mackenzie likes me very much.”

“I don’t think Mackenzie likes anyone,” Joe replies from the next tree over.

Tom frowns. That may be true, but that wasn’t the response he was looking for. He tries again. “Did you know he glares at me three times whenever he sees me by the ranch?” He twirls a leaf around and watches the light stream through the pores. No bugs. He checks off the corresponding cherry tree in his notebook. “ _Three_. Everybody else only gets one, two tops.”

Joe eyes him before popping the closest cherries off their branches and rolling them carefully into the basket by his feet, all with one hand. Then, after an unbearable few seconds, he finally says, “You know that’s because you ogle his employee.”

Tom bristles. One, because Joe was clearly showing off, and two, “I don’t _ogle_ —”

“—When he’s feeding the horses, when he’s letting them out into the pasture, and also when he’s drawing water for them,” Joe cuts in without missing a beat. He walks over and dumps the half-filled basket of cherries into Tom’s arms. “I’m right, aren’t I? That last one’s obvious because he has to bend over to let the pail down the well.”

Tom opens his mouth to retort, but Joe pushes past him with a smirk and grabs the notebook from his hands. “Come on, time to switch.”

They manage to pick a few more cherries and check a few more trees in silence before Tom pipes up again, because he’s not satisfied. “But don’t you think that’s unfair?”

Joe sighs. “What, that I have to stand here suffering through this?”

Tom throws a rotten cherry at him. “No, that other people ogle him too but I’m the only one Mackenzie hates.”

Joe dodges the cherry with ease. “I thought you said you weren’t ogling.”

“I wasn’t! I mean, I don’t.” Tom huffs. This isn’t going the way he envisioned in his mind. “You know what I mean.”

“Hmm.” Joe tilts his head, and Tom can tell from his tone that he’s being deliberately obtuse, the bastard. “I really don’t.”

“Never mind, let’s just forget it,” Tom grumbles, dumping another handful of cherries into the basket. He’s a tree or two away from filling it to the brim, so he focuses on finishing that instead. He really was ready to drop the subject entirely, but then—

“Is this about Lauri?” Joe suddenly asks.

Tom lets a few seconds pass by before answering, counting them slowly in his head. “No.”

“Pretty certain Lauri just helps out with his kids, is all.”

“That’s the thing!” Tom lets the basket go with a heavy thump, all pretense gone. “His kids!”

“Be careful with that, will you?” Joe nods at the basket. “Don’t want to tell mum you mucked up the morning’s harvest.”

“So,” Tom continues, trying to channel as much urgency into his voice as he can without risking sounding too desperate, “how am I supposed to compete with that?”

Joe sighs again, rubbing at his temples. “With what? When did this turn into a competition?”

“It’s hard enough getting one guy’s attention, but now I need his kids to like me too. They already like Lauri, so she’s got one leg up.” Tom stops, thinks, then ploughs on. “That’s my point, you see? She’s strolling home with them from the ranch and I’m still stuck behind the fences.”

Joe throws his hands up in the air. “Maybe if you—oh, I don’t know, went over and actually talked to him instead of staring at him from far away like a pathetic sod, you would get somewhere.”

Tom deflates. “But you haven’t heard the whispers. There’s definitely something going on with them.” In fact, he doesn’t know a single person in town who’s seen the two together and hasn’t automatically assumed.

“People talk,” Joe says simply, shrugging a shoulder. “You know how it is.”

“Maybe.” Tom looks down at the basket, kicking it once. “This one’s full, I’ll go get another.”

“I really think you’re overthinking things,” Joe insists before Tom heads back toward the house. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“I know, you’re always saying that.” Tom grins half-heartedly before letting it fade. It might very well all be pointless gossip, but there’s usually a foundation for these types of things, isn’t there? People were right about the mayor’s daughter running off with the milkman, after all. “But alright, I’ll try.”

“That’s the spirit,” Joe says, patting him on the back.

“Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it, though!” Tom yells when he’s halfway up the field.

~

Long story short is, ever since Tom ran over Mackenzie’s ranch hand on his way to the town center weeks ago, spilling cherries everywhere onto the dirt road, he’s been absolutely smitten.

Here’s the thing: it’s not even because the ranch hand has ocean-blue eyes, perfect golden hair, or strong arms that look like they could—

No. It’s the soft-spoken way he apologized for crashing into Tom’s bike even though it was very much Tom’s fault for not looking at where he was pedaling. It’s the casual conversation they held that eased Tom from feeling mortified to relaxed and comfortable, like they were old friends making their way back to each other rather than strangers meeting for the first time. It’s the shy smile he sent Tom before pulling him back to his feet, with those strong arms that look like they could—

Okay, fine. So, maybe those arms play a big part in his infatuation. Can’t blame a guy for falling head over heels, quite literally, when a man comes along looking like _that_ , can you?

Point is, he’s a goner, and by God, it feels _great_.

He learned, after “accidentally” wandering back to the ranch on his return trip, that the very handsome ranch hand is one William Schofield, goes by Will, and is even taller than he remembered. Will reads poetry in his spare time, keeps a travel journal, and watches the daily sunrise from the hillside. He’s also working on the ranch to provide for his two daughters, which, Tom will be the first to admit, caught him entirely by surprise.

_“You’re married?”_

_“Was,” Will said in that lyrical voice of his. “My wife passed away giving birth to our second.”_

_Tom felt awful. For hearing the truth, and for feeling just slightly relieved. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve asked.”_

_“It was difficult for a while,” Will admitted. “But, we manage, and it’s not so terrible now.”_

_In an attempt to change the subject, Tom asked, “You like horses?” and immediately felt dumb afterward._

_Thankfully, Will looked amused. “They’re not bad. Couldn’t get past the smell at first, but you get used to it. Majestic creatures, aren’t they?”_

_“Sure,” Tom concurred, not because he held a strong opinion about horses, but because he was willing to agree with anything Will said._

_“You like cherries?” Will teased, his voice laced with humor._

_Tom felt a blush blooming inside his cheeks and willed it to go away, rather unsuccessfully. He’d always had a delicate complexion; “fair as a lady,” his mum told him once. She was one of the few who meant it as a compliment (others were not always so kind), but in reality, he hated how easily his face gave away his true feelings. He might as well have been an open book. “They’re not bad. We own—my mum owns an orchard. We, Joe and I, we help out.”_

_“Joe. Your…” Will trailed off, studying him. “Brother?”_

_Tom nodded. “Older.”_

_“Makes sense.”_

_“What does that mean?”_

_“You don’t seem the type to have younger siblings.”_

_He knew that was a dig at his expense, but he’s sure that both the blush and now the smile on his face indicated he didn’t care. Yeah; he was definitely an open book. “How do you know I don’t? I could have both. I could be a middle child.”_

_“Are you?”_

_“No.”_

_Will laughed, the sound striking straight to Tom’s heart, setting it aflutter. “Hard to believe we’d never spoken before this morning, considering...”_

_“…that we live in such a small town?” Tom suggested, when it became evident that Will wasn’t going to finish his sentence. He fidgeted with his sleeves and pulled the hem of his shirt down as Will continued to remain silent. Why was Will looking at him like that?_

_Will followed his movements as something fluttered in his eyes, brief and quick. “Yes, that’s it.”_

_Tom grinned, because he couldn’t believe it, either. He passed the ranch every day, but he supposed he never had reason to look past the fence until today. “Mackenzie’s an arse. I race past this place if I can afford to.”_

_Will nodded mock-solemnly. “I don’t blame you. I hope you slow down from now on, though.”_

_Tom stared at him, wondering if they were on the same wavelength, or if he was simply making things up in his head. He did that from time to time—make things up, that is._

_“To say hi,” Will clarified. Tom probably stared for a bit too long, because Will sounded slightly unsure. “If you want. Mackenzie’s not usually here in the afternoons. Out terrorizing other citizens of this good town, I hear.”_

_And apparently, he was funny, too. Who can afford to be both gorgeous_ and _funny? Fucking Christ._

_“Alright,” Tom managed to squeak out._

Eventually, he left before things got out of hand, but not without a promise to visit again. But, when he jumped over the gate a few days later and was about to call out for Will, Will emerged from the horse stable with a petite young woman pressed to his side, their arms intertwined like they knew each other well. Very well. Tom had never run away from a place so fast in his entire life.

He didn’t go back again, not the next day, or for any day afterward.

~

Still, it was hard to stay _entirely_ away. He truly did have to pass the ranch every damn day, so he worked out a strategy to get the most out of it. He reckoned that as long as he minded his distance and stayed outside the fence, even Mackenzie didn’t have the right to tell him what to do. It’s not as if the horrid man owned the roads, did he? Besides, he only pauses on the way back from town, he doesn’t stay too long to raise any suspicion from the occasional passerby, and if someone does happen to look at him funny for even a second, he gets on his bike and keeps pedaling.

It was through this routine that he first found out that the petite young woman’s name is Lauri (he has good hearing), that she and Will look like a picture-perfect couple (he has good eyesight), and that Joe is fed up with him about all of this.

“I don’t understand you,” Joe says, exasperation leaking out. “You won’t talk to him but you’ll—what, surveillance him?”

“Stop pacing, they’ll see you!” Tom whispers while swatting at Joe, who rolls his eyes and steps back behind the bush.

“I don’t know who to feel sorrier for, you or that poor bastard,” Joe says pitifully. “I’m leaving. I’ve got better things to do than watch you make a fool of yourself. Or get yourself arrested.”

Tom shoots a glare in his direction. He’s starting to feel a tad peeved, though he’d never admit it out loud. “Go on then, nobody’s keeping you here.”

“I am,” comes a stern voice, and Tom jumps, losing his balance and falling backward onto mud-lined boots. He looks up and pales at the sight, irritation completely drained and replaced with dread.

“Fuck me,” he blurts out, just as Joe grabs him by the collar and hauls him up. Perhaps his strategy wasn’t so bulletproof, after all. “Mackenzie.”

“That’s ‘sir’ to you, young man,” Mackenzie intones coolly. His gaze can bore holes into stone, or so they say, and Tom fights to not wither under it.

“Sir,” Joe says cautiously, “we can explain.”

Mackenzie shifts his gaze over with a quick flicker of eyes. “I didn’t ask you.”

“Stand down, Mackenzie.” A tall figure strides over from a carriage parked in the distance, which had somehow stayed hidden this entire time. It’s one of those fancier kinds with lots of adornments, meant for carrying important people, and when its owner is but a few yards away, Tom finally knows why.

“Fuck me,” he blurts out again, and Joe elbows him in the side painfully. “Mayor Erinmore, what are you doing here?”

“Mackenzie filed a complaint that he was getting unwanted visitors around his place,” Erinmore announces, towering over them all. He’s even taller than Mackenzie, and he doesn’t even need high-heeled boots to be it. “Or should I say, visitor.”

“Indeed. This boy—” Mackenzie digs the bottom end of his riding crop into Tom’s chest, “has been trespassing on my property.”

“Ow. I wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” Mackenzie narrows his eyes, “test me.”

“Now, now, there’s no need for that.” Erinmore extends an arm and disengages the riding crop with one gloved palm. “I’ve spoken to Smith about him. He’s a good lad. Aren’t you?”

“Smith?” Tom asks, eyes opening incredulously. “The captain knows who I am?”

“ _Tom_ ,” Joe warns, tugging once more on his collar. “Yes, our apologies, Mayor Erinmore, Mackenzie, sir. He’ll be mindful from now on. Isn’t that right, Tom?”

“Yes, sir. Sirs,” Tom stammers, mind still reeling, because…Captain Smith? Sure, Smith patrols the town with his men every night, so Tom sees him from time to time if he goes back home late, but they’ve never even shared a look, let alone a conversation.

Erinmore nods firmly. “Good. That settles that, doesn’t it?” he asks, turning to Mackenzie, who scowls, because even he knows that after the mayor’s decided to put an end to something, that it’ll stay that way.

“Be that as it may, if I see them loitering here again, especially this one,” Mackenzie points a finger at Tom, “I won’t hesitate to run them out.” With that, Mackenzie turns his back and leaves as promptly as he appeared. The man always seems to be coming and going as he pleases.

Erinmore raises an eyebrow and shakes his head ever so slightly. “Mackenzie can be…difficult,” he allows. “That being said, it’s not proper to dawdle around another man’s property if you have no business there. Be careful from now on, gentlemen.”

He waves them away, and as Tom allows Joe to drag him back in the direction of their house, he can’t stop wondering about what Smith could’ve possibly told Erinmore that would lead the man to rein Mackenzie in from his vendetta.

~

In any case, he wants to proudly declare that he went back to doing whatever the hell he wanted, Mackenzie and his riding crop be damned, but he doesn’t want to bring trouble to anyone, including and especially not Will. Besides, cherry season is ramping up, which means double the harvest, and his mum will need all the help she can get.

So, he cools it. It’s been more than a month since he talked to Will that fateful day, and Lauri has been coming by more and more regularly, so he reckons he can let it go. Chalk it up to bad timing and an ill alignment of fates and files the incident under conquests that simply weren’t meant to be.

That is, until he’s delivering another shipment of cherries to Leslie one morning, with a trailer attached behind his bike this time because there are more crates than usual, and he causes another collision in front of the market trying to dodge a rat.

“I am so sorry,” he apologizes to the people staring down at him. He gets off his arse and checks the crates first—undisturbed, thank Christ—before bending over to help a man off the ground. When he gets a closer look at said person, he freezes. “Will?”

Will peers up in the middle of his coughing, instigated by the dust cloud that arose from the fall. “Tom? Is that you?”

“Yeah, but—” How the bloody hell is this happening again? Even with his face streaked in dirt, Will looks gorgeous. “Never mind that. Are you alright?”

“Déjà vu,” Will says, taking Tom’s outstretched hand and pulling himself up. As he pats down his trousers, he asks, “Do you make it a habit of running everyone over, or am I special?”

Tom flushes, which is totally not appropriate right now. “No, you’re not special. I mean, you’re not _not_ special, it’s not because it’s you, it’s—” He cuts himself off. _Get it together, you blooming idiot_. “It’s my fault. Sorry, I—”

The clock tower begins chiming, each ring grating on the otherwise peaceful morning because they haven’t fixed the cracks on the bells yet.

Tom winces, suddenly hit with a sharp pain in his side. His hand automatically gravitates toward the area in a well-practiced reflex, and when his brain catches up with his actions, he understands—the tissue around his old wound must’ve become agitated by the fall earlier. _Shit._ It hurts like hell, but he doesn’t have time to deal with it right now, and it typically subsides if he ignores it long enough.

He bends down and begins scrambling to pick up the crates, but Will pulls him back, hand drawn in a loose fist around Tom’s wrist.

“Wait, what’s wrong?” Will asks, concern evident in his voice.

“I need to get these to Leslie right now or he’ll dock my pay,” Tom says, which he knows is not the answer to the question that Will was really asking. He slows down and tries not to panic; he can’t afford to cock this up, not when his mum is counting on him. “I’m sorry, I really am, but I’ve got to—”

“Is there a problem here, lads?”

The market crowd circling them begins to part for the owner of the voice. There are only two people they would do that for, and Tom doesn’t want to stick around for either option. He hesitates, wondering if he should stay or make a run for it, but by the time he decides, it’s too late, and a uniformed man emerges to stand before them.

“Captain,” Will says, sounding relieved. “There’s no problem, Captain. There’s just been a minor accident.”

“Of course.” Smith eyes the space bridging the two of them, where Will’s hand is still latched onto Tom’s arm. He surveys the surroundings, seemingly taking his time to absorb every last detail, before looking at Tom head on. “Mackenzie filed a complaint about you. Tom, is it?”

Tom breathes sharply in. He should’ve made a run for it, but the pressure of Will’s thumb on his pulse point kept him still, like an anchor docking a ship in a storm. “Captain, that was—”

“A misunderstanding,” Will interrupts, stepping between him and Smith, but still not letting go of his arm. He shoots an apologetic glance over his shoulder before looking back at Smith. “Tom did nothing wrong. Please believe me, Captain.”

Smith always had a reputation for being difficult to read, but it isn’t until this moment that Tom truly understands what people meant by that. No face twitches, no changes in expression, just a focused and contemplative stare that could mean anything. Rather than trying to guess what Smith is thinking, Tom waits until the man speaks again; it’s not as if the situation can turn any worse than it already is.

“So you’ve said. I remember,” Smith eventually responds, lips quirking up with mirth. He flits his eyes once more between the two of them, then snaps his cane in Tom’s direction. “Well then, help the boy with his cherries, won’t you?”

Then, and this is where Tom is certain he must’ve hit his head earlier and lost his marbles, Smith winks at him before telling the crowd to go back to minding its own business.

He’s honestly not sure what just happened—one minute, he’s worried he’s going to be carted off to jail, the next, he’s carrying his cherries inside the market with Will walking beside him. It’s a silent affair for the majority of the journey, and the bustling of customers around them serves as a nice ornament to his thoughts. No matter how much he tries to avoid it, he keeps circling back to the man next to him.

“Do you know Captain Smith personally?” he forces himself to ask, because there’s no other explanation for what transpired. Smith is a fair person, listens to both sides of a story to find the third missing angle, but even so, nobody would dare speak to him in the way Will did.

Will sidesteps a cart but otherwise keeps his eyes tuned forward. “Something like that.”

From that curt response, Tom can tell that Will doesn’t want to concede much. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Will hums. “You are curious, though?”

Tom shrugs. He is, but… “You have to earn a person’s secrets, right?”

They turn the corner when the vegetable stalls bleed into the fruit stalls. It’s half past eight, which means business is already booming and Tom is so very, very late when they finally arrive at their destination: two tables put haphazardly together with a big vacant spot next to the grapes and pears.

“Look who’s marching in like he owns the place,” Leslie drones sarcastically. If he hadn’t spoken up, he would’ve remained completely blended in with the battered cloth hanging behind him. “Finally decided to wake up and smell the flowers, did ya?”

“I’m sorry,” Tom repeats for what feels like the millionth time that morning. “It won’t happen again.”

“It bloody better well not, or you’re not going to be getting any more of my business,” Leslie says. He turns to Will, looks him up and down, and flicks the towel he’s holding in his direction. “Who the hell is this?”

“I’m William Schofield, sir. I’m helping Tom out for the day. You shouldn’t be so hard on him. He’s a good man.” He says it unflinchingly, with righteous determination and a steeled glint in his eyes, and Tom is…well, to say he’s struck with something fierce would be putting it rather mildly.

Leslie isn’t as impressed. “Yeah, alright, I don’t care.” He gestures aimlessly behind the stall. “Set ‘em down there and go collect your pay, you chumps. Then get the hell out of here.”

They swiftly do as he says before the man changes his mind, then promptly make their way through the rest of the labyrinth and out the back entrance of the market.

“He’s a piece of work,” Will remarks the moment they exit. “He and Mackenzie should have at each other, see who wins.”

Tom is too busy watching Will from the corner of his eye to remember to laugh. There’s a strange sensation caught in his chest, enough to overwhelm the pain in his side. He feels…well, he doesn’t really know what he feels. Doesn’t know what it means. “You didn’t have to do that, earlier.”

Will furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “Captain Smith wouldn’t have done anything to you anyway.”

Tom shakes his head. “I meant back there, with Leslie.”

Will parts his lips for a silent _ah_. “Think nothing of it. He should know that you’re a hard worker,” he says matter-of-factly. “Besides, I meant what I said.”

“You…” Tom swallows, but it doesn’t make his throat less dry. “You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

Will looks intently at him. “That isn’t true. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have disappeared.”

Tom opens his mouth, but he’s not finding the right words. He feels naked under Will’s scrutiny, as if his heart is encased in glass. Everything he wants to say to Will spills deeply into his stomach.

“Why did you?” Will asks. He sounds cautious; weary, almost, and for a split second, he looks as if he’s aged ten years. Tom shivers from the sudden desire to iron those wrinkles out with his fingers and trace the curves of Will’s face. This hadn’t really been a problem before, but now, it’s a huge problem.

“Mackenzie…” he begins, voice wavering, but Will doesn’t let him finish.

“That wouldn’t have deterred you. You’re a trouble-maker.” Will says it with a hint of fondness rather than distaste. “So, why did you?”

Tom doesn’t want to tell the whole truth, that he ran away like a coward, but maybe he can part with some of it. “You’re working there for your family, you said? I reckoned I’d leave you to it so you could finish up and go home to them earlier.”

Will’s face falls slightly. “That’s it? Nothing else?”

“What else would there be?” Tom knows he’s being dense on purpose, but better that than revealing his cards and losing twice to the same game.

Before Will can push any further, Tom locates his bike in the distance and begins walking toward it, deliberately not looking to see if Will is following. Even so, the light pattering of footsteps indicates that Will is, of course, right behind him.

When Tom reaches the bike and moves to disengage the brakes, Will steps between him and the seat. At Tom’s inquisitive look, Will explains, “Come over for supper tonight.”

“What?” It slips out before Tom can stop himself.

“Come over for supper,” Will repeats. “I’m off-duty today. We’re making chicken with gravy.”

 _We’re._ He should say no, but that would be childish, and he’d have to come up with another excuse for not going. And besides, he does love a good gravy on chicken. Yes; that’s the reason he tells himself when he asks, “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t.” Will smiles, then digs out a pad and pencil and begins drawing on it. “We’re three streets behind the generals store. There’s a small pond nearby. Five o’clock?” He tears off the top sheet of paper when he’s done and offers it.

“Early,” Tom comments as he takes the paper. A map.

“The girls always go to bed at eight.” Will pauses. “Is that a problem?”

Tom shakes his head. “Five. I’ll be there.”

As Will brushes by with a light touch on the shoulder, Tom folds the map safely into his trouser pockets. He can be just friends with the handsome ranch hand with strong arms. No big deal.

~

He makes the mistake of telling his mum where he’s going that night, but what was he going to do, sneak out like a schoolgirl on curfew?

“I’ve packed a pie for you to bring,” his mum says, all but throwing it into his arms. “Can’t go to a supper without pulling your weight, can ya?”

“But I didn’t even make this,” he complains, “what weight am I pulling?”

“If you’d told me about it when you got back this morning, I would’ve had more time to whip you into shape, but we can’t do anything about that now, so this’ll have to do.” She frowns at his face, licks her thumb, and scrubs above his eyebrows.

“Mum!” He ducks away before she can do it again.

“You’ve got dirt on you still!” she scolds, carding a hand through his hair. “What are you, in primary school? Can’t even properly wash yourself before a date.”

“This isn’t a date, he’s a friend,” he mumbles, patting his hair back down. He loves his mum, but he should’ve known she’d get the wrong idea about this. “Didn’t I mention his girl’s going to be there?”

She gives him an unimpressed look. “Tommy, I taught you better than this.”

“It’s not your fault, mum,” Joe supplies from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter. “Tom’s a lost cause.”

“Traitor,” he mutters under his breath as he leaves the house with “Don’t forget to stay late and help clean up!” ringing in his ears.

~

He didn’t have the heart to say it to Will’s face, but the map isn’t exactly of the highest quality. The scaling is off and there’s an extra street drawn in that leads him down the wrong path before he realizes he’s pedaling into a dead end and turns back around. In the end, he manages to find the correct house because he walks onto the hillside and sees the pond that Will mentioned.

When he walks up to the door, he sees that the place is closer to a small cottage or shack more than anything. There are flowers of all colors and sizes planted like a halo circling the perimeter, and a low wooden fence leads the way to what looks like a garden in the back. He makes out several tomato plants and an apple tree from where he’s standing.

After finally working up enough courage, he steps forward and knocks. There’s a distant clank, some thumps that sound like footsteps, and then the door opens.

Well, he wasn’t wrong. _We’re_ indeed.

“Hello! Welcome,” says Lauri. “Please, enter.” The smile she offers is so kind and bright, Tom can’t help but return it.

“Thank you for having me,” he says politely, because he means it, and Lauri seems like a lovely girl. He can see why Will likes her. “I brought something,” he adds, holding up the pie.

“Oh, _merci_! This will make a good dessert.” She takes the pie and ushers him inside. “Table, that way.”

He peers toward the direction she points in and sees the glow of a small fire reflected on the walls. When he reaches the entrance, he’s nearly knocked over by a sudden weight.

“Girls, be careful,” Will chides, pulling them gently back. “Sorry, they’re a little excited. We don’t get many guests. This is Elizabeth”—he takes the taller girl by the hand—“and Grace”—then the smaller girl’s.

“Pleased to meet you both,” Tom says seriously while shaking both of their hands. A grin slips out when he senses how small their palms are. “I crashed into your dad with my bike today, but he’s too polite to say anything bad about it.”

Grace looks up at her father, then back at Tom. “Papa said it was sharing.”

“Charming,” Elizabeth corrects. “He said it was charming.”

“Charming?” Tom asks, perplexed, looking between the two of them. “Why?”

“Now, I didn’t say that—” Will starts.

“Yes, you did,” Elizabeth says. “You also said he was like Ma—”

“Alright, girls,” Will interrupts, placing his palms swiftly over Elizabeth and Grace’s mouths. “You should go help Aunt Lauri with the food.”

 _Aunt_ Lauri? Tom watches the girls run off, then turns to Will, who has one hand on his hip and the other scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Is Lauri your sister?”

“Sort of,” Will says. “As you can probably tell by now, she’s not originally from this town. She was on the run from some bad people, and,” he glances at a darkened adjacent room, “well, maybe it’s easier if I show you.”

Tom is still in the middle of relabeling the image of Lauri in his brain with _SISTER_ rather than _GIRLFRIEND_ as he follows Will in a hazy daze. He also feels incredibly silly, considering how much time he’d devoted to overthinking everything; Joe was right, damn him.

When they reach the corner of the room, Will picks up a sleeping infant from inside a crib. “Lauri found her abandoned and brought her to this town with her. She couldn’t find a place to stay, until Captain Smith saw her huddling behind the station with the infant and gave them shelter for the night.”

Will smiles gently when Tom looks at him in surprise. He begins swaying back and forth with the infant in his arms. “The captain lent a hand when my wife passed away because she used to work in his office. I wanted to repay him, so when he was visiting one day and mentioned Lauri and the infant, I offered to take them in. We’ve grown close.”

Tom lets the minute pass quietly, trying to digest all this information. “Why are you telling me this?” It must’ve been a closely guarded secret considering how much the town likes to gossip.

Will studies him. The candle flame reflects provocatively in his eyes like starlight. “I think you’ve earned my secrets.”

“But we barely know each other.” All Tom has done is run over the guy twice.

A shadow passes over Will’s face. “Strange, isn’t it? Feels like I’ve known you for ages.”

Tom wants to ask how, and why, but he doesn’t know if either of those questions are right. Instead, he stands still, watching Will and the infant in a trance, until Will breaks the spell and walks closer toward him.

“Do you want to hold her?” Will asks.

Oddly, Tom finds that he does. He takes the infant gingerly from Will’s arms, taking care to hold her neck up and begins mimicking Will’s movements from before. When he leans in, he hears the infant breathing in and out like a metronome, the pattern keeping with the slow rhythm of the flickering shadows on the wall. He runs his eyes over the infant’s face—soft nose, eyelids, lips, and cheeks, then lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He can’t believe such a delicate creature can exist in this world, or that he, Will, all humankind, also began their lives this way.

“The girls were telling the truth earlier, you were charming this morning,” Will suddenly says. “The way you kept apologizing even though you were every bit as knocked over as I was, if not more so. It’s very noble to say sorry even when you don’t need to.” He stops, then adds, “It’s also very earnest of you. I don’t think many people are very earnest these days.”

Tom feels his chest squeeze. Charming? Earnest? Him? Perhaps it’s because he’s only noticing it now, but all of a sudden, it feels extremely intimate in the small, dimly lit space. He needs to get out of here before his heart combusts.

As he passes the infant back to Will, the pain in his side returns. He grimaces before he can tell himself not to, and his body follows suit until he’s nearly doubled over.

Will immediately places the infant back in the crib and catches Tom with both arms, one behind Tom’s back and one over Tom’s chest, just a few millimeters away from Tom’s heart. “What’s wrong?”

Tom closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Why now, of all times? “It’s just an old wound opening up,” he assures, tossing out a smile. “Patch it up when I get home and I’ll be good as new.”

Will is digging a bandage out of a nearby drawer before Tom even finishes speaking. “You can’t leave it for that long. Let me help.”

Before Tom can protest, Will maneuvers him into the rocking chair next to the crib and promptly kneels down, very warm and very close to...

Well, Tom is extremely thankful for the dark shadows and the single candlestick in the room, because he’s certain he’s blushing six ways to Sunday right now, and all the self-control in the world wouldn’t be able to make it go away.

“Do you always have medical supplies on hand for a crisis?” Tom quips, attempting to lighten the mood but mostly to get his mind out of the gutter.

“You should take off your shirt,” Will says immediately, extremely seriously.

Tom thinks his cheeks must be completely burnt off by now, which he thought was near impossible until this moment. He doesn’t have the capacity to do much of anything because his brain has melted into a useless lump, so he dutifully does as Will says. He tries not to shiver when Will presses gentle fingers against his skin.

There really isn’t that much blood—the knife wound has opened back up, sure, but it’s not as if his guts are spilling out. Tom thinks Will is overreacting just a bit, if the profuse number of bandages that Will is wrapping around his torso is to go by.

“You’re not going to wrap me in that entire spool, are you?” Tom jokes, because as much as he appreciates this, Will is being a bit ridiculous.

Will, as expected, ignores him. “You need to take better care of yourself.” He sounds angry, but also a little sad, which is incredibly confusing. Tom stays silent and watches Will waste all of his bandages on him.

“Promise me you’ll take better care of yourself,” Will insists again when he’s finished. He runs his fingers lightly around where the center of the wound is. “Please.”

“Okay.” Tom nods. Will can be quite persistent. “I promise.”

Will doesn’t look satisfied. His hand is still laid against Tom’s side, stubborn and unrelenting, as if it’s found its natural resting place. After another wordless minute or two, Tom thinks he understands.

“You can ask if you want.”

Like a deer frightened in the night, Will recoils his fingers. “It’s none of my business.”

“You made it your business when you ordered me to strip and mummified me.”

Will finally looks up and makes eye contact, annoyance apparent on his face, but he follows up with “Tell me, then,” so he can’t be that annoyed.

“Nothing much to tell,” Tom shrugs. “Got stabbed.”

“Who?” Will asks, unsurprised.

“Not a clue. Some bastard. I never saw him again, so who cares?”

Will looks as if he wants to press further, but after a seemingly long internal deliberation, he merely sighs. “You really need to take better care of yourself. Who knows what would’ve happened if…”

Will, Tom has realized, has a bad habit of leaving half of his sentences unfinished. It makes him more cryptic than he already is, and it also makes it that much more difficult to unravel the mystery that is William Schofield.

Eventually, Will stands back up. Tom feels cold immediately, missing the hearth of Will’s chest, so he puts his shirt back on. It bumps up at the circumference of the bandages lying underneath.

“Supper should be ready soon,” Will says easily, as if the past fifteen or twenty minutes never happened. Maybe he wants to pretend they didn’t.

Tom is good at pretending. “Sounds great. I’m starving.”

~

Luckily, supper barely avoids being awkward because Lauri keeps Tom busy with mild questions.

( _How much older is your brother? Do you only grow cherries? How do you like your work?_ )

Tom is more than happy to oblige; Lauri probably doesn’t get the chance to talk to many people outside of this household. Besides, he welcomes anything that’ll distract him from deciphering whatever look it is that Will has on his face.

( _Joe’s two years older but he doesn’t always behave like it so don’t let him fool you. We have an assortment of crops on the land, ‘specially during the winter. Work is alright but I’d like to learn how to navigate the stars._ )

The night ends with Will leaving the table to put Elizabeth and Grace to bed. Tom leaves the dish with the half-eaten pie in their kitchen and decides to tell his mum that he’ll get it from them the next time he sees them, although he doesn’t plan on it.

Lauri gives him a hug under the arch of the front door, which is unexpected, but nice. “Take care,” she says, before squeezing his arm and closing the door.

Tom breathes in the sweet, night air, looks right at the bushes of pink and white roses, then turns left toward the path entrance, opting to walk his bike rather than ride home on it. He gets about a third of the way down the road before a light pattering of footsteps enters his consciousness, mixed in with the rusty squeak of his bicycle spokes. He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is.

“Let me walk you,” Will says, his breathing undisturbed by the short jog. “Just to the end of the street.”

Even though the scenario was different in practically every way, it reminds Tom of their walk through the market. Him and Will, side by side.

The night drags on as every step feels like two steps back. The space before them is heavy like a void, and Tom nearly trips over a few unfortunately placed rocks if it wasn’t for the fireflies hovering around them. Eventually, the silence becomes too much to bear, but just when Tom decides to speak, Will beats him to it.

“You remind me of her.”

It takes Tom a few slow, languid seconds to piece those words together. “What?”

“I think that’s why I can trust you so easily,” Will confesses in a murmur. “Not because you look the same, or talk in the same way, or anything like that, but there’s something about you that…”

Will reaches out and brushes two fingers against one of Tom’s sleeves, pulling on it lightly before letting go. “It makes me want to tell you everything.”

Tom hears his own breath hitch, loud and abrasive in the lull of the night. Are they on the same wavelength, or is he simply making things up in his head? He looks down at Will’s hand, calloused from ranch work yet soft from being a father, and resists holding it with his own.

They stare at each other for a long, long while, long enough for the clouds in the dark sky to part. Shadows cast down from the moon dance around them like a bonfire setting the ground aflame.

Somebody needs to say something. Tom inhales deeply, then exhales nervously before taking the plunge. “Just so there’s absolutely no chance of a misunderstanding, by ‘her’ you’re referring to…”

“My wife,” Will says definitively. “Yes.”

 _What do you mean by that? What in God’s name do you mean by that?_ Those are the questions Tom should be following up with right this very second, but apparently, William Schofield has not only stolen his heart, but his voice as well.

“Good night,” is the response Tom finally decides on, and he quickly gets on his bike and pedals like his life depends on it. _What the hell? What the hell?_

Seriously—what the bloody hell is William Schofield playing at?

~

He doesn’t actually get the chance to think that deeply about it when he arrives home, because his mum opens the door before he can even turn the doorknob.

“I was about to send a search party out lookin’ for you!” She looks bewildered, hair disheveled and sticking every which way. “Where’ve you been?”

Truth be told, he’s more than slightly terrified right now. He peers around the house cautiously. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“The courier brought this.” She hands over a large envelope, then whispers, “A special delivery, it seems.”

The paper is silky smooth to the touch. He turns it over, fingers automatically curving under the flap to rip it open when he catches the red insignia printed on the back. Anyone would recognize the symbol. Odds are typically not in one’s favor when one receives such a letter.

“The mayor’s office?” He hesitates, curiosity completely dissipated. What could Erinmore possibly want this time?

He finds a knife in the kitchen and carefully slices through the top of the envelope, his hands shaking as he takes out the letter.

_To Mr. Thomas Blake:_

_By order of Mayor Erinmore, your presence is requested at the Town Hall on June 30 to commend you for your valiant efforts in saving the life of a fellow citizen during the mining accident on April 6. Your act of courage and selflessness represents the finest qualities in an individual._

_On behalf of the entire town, I thank you for your service. Please respond by post by June 15 informing us of your decision. We sincerely hope you will accept this commendation._

_Highest regards,_

_M. Erinmore_

“Well?” His mum’s voice echoes distantly in his ears.

“They.” Tom swallows, eyes suspended in disbelief. “They want to give me a medal. For the mining accident.”

His mum laughs. “Of course they do!” She hugs him fiercely, then musses up his hair. “My little hero boy.”

“Mum,” Tom groans, blushing. “You know I didn’t do it for that.” Still, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t just the tiny bit happy, and also very, very relieved. But…something feels off about the entire ordeal.

“How do you reckon they found out it was me?” he wonders out loud.

“Somebody must’ve finally spoken up! About time I’d say, the ungrateful bastards. Now I don’t have to personally march over and give the mayor an earful for overlooking your efforts.” She kisses him on the temple and wanders back into the kitchenette, whistling off-tune the entire time.

Tom shakes his head and breathes out a shaky laugh. After he retires to his room and flops down onto the bed, quietly so as to not wake Joe, he reads the note once, twice, thrice more, feeling more and more giddy every time. _Highest regards_ , huh? How about that?

He’s about to put the letter away when another sheet of paper falls from inside the envelope. He catches it just before it flutters to the ground.

Unlike the tidy font of a typewriter that laid out the previous note, slanted cursive covers this entire page from top to bottom. A handwritten memo from the mayor, perhaps? He locates the top, gets as far as _To Mayor Erinmore,_ and abruptly stops.

Obviously, it’s not addressed to him. Did Erinmore put this one in by accident? Or, maybe it was an assistant who had too much to drink the night before? He knows he shouldn’t look at it, but…

He rolls onto his side and tilts the page toward the moonlight shining in from the windows.

_My sincerest apologies for addressing you so frankly. However, there is a matter I’d like to report directly to you. As you know, there was a mining accident on the outskirts of town on April 6 caused by natural elements._

_A young man passing by must’ve seen the collapse and ran to check on the mining shaft. As luck would have it, I was the last one trapped inside. My sight was slightly impaired during the entire ordeal, but a vision I will never forget is the young man, blood soaking the side of his stomach, and yet using all his strength to carry me out. Before I could inquire after his identity, he left me to my fellow workers that managed to escape earlier and promptly went on his way._

_I didn’t know who he was until I met him by happenstance again a week ago. During my conversation with him, it seemed to me that he had either forgotten the incident or simply treated it as a typical day in his life, because he never brought it up as a way to improve my impression of him. Perhaps it is in his wishes to leave the matter unturned, but I am of the opinion that these such people are the very ones we should thank and recognize, because they inspire us to become better versions of ourselves._

_His name is Thomas Blake, and I hope you will consider recognizing him for his courageous efforts._

_Sincerely,_

“William Schofield.”

Tom stares down at the signature as he reads the name out loud. It weighs heavily on his tongue, like a familiar shape taking on a new form. He’s ready to dismiss it as a mistake, a trick of the eyes, when his brain begins conjuring up a mishmash of memories, all spoken in that soft, lyrical voice that captivated him from that very first day on the ranch.

_Hard to believe we’d never spoken before this morning, considering…_

_You shouldn’t be so hard on him. He’s a good man._

_You really need to take better care of yourself. Who knows what would’ve happened if…_

His chest swells with the same burning sensation as the one from that morning at the market. He still can’t find the right word to describe the feeling. It’s not love, not that at all. He’s felt love before—for his mum, for Joe, for a handful of others who may not have always returned his affections, but what he’s feeling now is something deeper, something more profound. But what could be more profound than love?

He looks up desperately at the ceiling, hoping he’ll find answers etched into the cracked paint above.

~

_April 6_

_At first, Tom thinks he’s imagining the tremor, but one look at the fence lining the road, at the trees in the distance, at the birds flocking away to the sky, and he knows for certain that the shaking is not simply in his mind. He whips his head around frantically, wondering where he can hide, when an explosion knocks him to the ground and rumbles the earth._

_He lifts his head just in time to see the dust cloud at the edge of the horizon, merely a few yards away. A small crowd of people begins running his way, and he gets up before he’s trampled. He manages to catch one of them—a man in miner’s clothes—but before he can ask what’s happened, the man plunges something sharp into his side._

_“Bloody hell!” Tom yells, clutching his stomach. What is that? A dagger? A glass shard?_

_The man lets go of the object with a shaky hand. The whites of his eyes dwarf his pupils, and he looks scared out of his mind. “I’m—I’m sorry—I thought you—I’m sorry!” he stammers hysterically before backing away slowly and running down the road._

_Tom grimaces, looks at the dust cloud, then back down at his wound. The bastard stabbed him with a fucking knife. Thankfully, it’s a small one and barely missed anywhere important; well, as unimportant anything in his body can be, anyway. If he can leave it in until he gets home, it shouldn’t be difficult for Joe to patch him up._

_Another tremor, albeit a smaller one this time, shakes the ground once more, and the dust cloud explodes into the air again. Tom thinks; the man was in a miner’s uniform, so—of course, the mining tunnels. There can’t possibly be anybody left in there, can there? Besides, he needs to get home to his mum, who’d already been kept waiting for her medicine due to those idiots at the doctor’s. Still…_

_Tom stumbles as fast as he can manage to the tunnel. He finds two men, also in miner’s clothes, gathered at the entrance. One of them looks to have a broken arm; the other, a broken leg._

_“Are you alright?” he asks them._

_“There’s still somebody in there,” the one with the broken leg cries from where he’s laid on the ground. “He pushed me forward. It should’ve—it should’ve been me.”_

_“It’s too late for him, now,” the one with the broken arm consoles, then looks at Tom with sad eyes. “There’s no way we can go look for him like this.”_

_Tom looks between the two men, then down into the deep mouth of the tunnel’s entrance._

_“How far down is he?” he hears himself ask._

_“Hard to say. At least one or two tunnels worth, but—” The one with the broken arm looks incredulously at the knife lodged in Tom’s side. “You’re injured, you can’t possibly—”_

_“Oh, believe me, I am.” Tom tears the sleeves off his shirt and stuffs them into his pockets for later, just in case. He gives the men a reassuring smile, more for his own benefit rather than theirs, grabs their lamp, and heads down the tunnel._

_He makes it to the first bend when he realizes belatedly that he should’ve asked what the man’s name was. This was going to make it difficult._

_“Hello?” he yells, hearing the tunnel echo his own voice back at him. “Anyone there?”_

_He reaches a fork when another tremor rises. He yells again, “Hello?”_

_As the tremor subsides, he hears a string of coughs from the right tunnel. “Over here! I’m stuck.”_

_“Keep talking!” Tom yells as he follows the man’s voice to a pile of rubble. “Hello? Are you there?” He sets down the lamp and begins digging. He’d better not be dead._

_He hauls rock after rock off the top, but they replenish faster than he can throw them away. Finally, he plunges his arms into the pile, feeling the scrapes burn into his forearm as his fingers touch skin. He grabs blindly at what feels like a shirt collar and pulls until a pale face emerges. The man isn’t breathing._

_“Wake up!” Tom pleads, shaking the man. It’s getting more and more difficult to see. “Come on!” He gives the man one more shake, and the man roars back to life._

_“You’re okay,” Tom tells him, relieved. “You’re okay.” He feels a sharp pain where he was stabbed and looks down to see the knife has fallen out. Fuck. He grabs the cloth strips out of his pocket, uses one to wipe the man’s face, then wraps the other firmly around his own torso._

_“What—What’s happening? Who are you?” the man asks hoarsely in between coughs, blinking rapidly._

_“This whole thing’s coming down.” Tom peers nervously at the rubble falling around them, then turns to haul the man up. “Stand up! I’m going to get us out. You keep hold of me, alright?”_

_The man nods and grabs the back of Tom’s shirt. After making sure the man’s grip on him is firm, Tom begins running, maintaining a delicate balance between going fast enough to be one step ahead of the rubble but slow enough for the man to keep up. They make it around the bend when Tom abruptly stops._

_“Wait!”_

_The ground must’ve given way in between all the aftershocks. Tom looks at the distant light outside of the tunnel that’s waiting for them. They are so close to home._

_“Listen,” Tom says, grabbing the man’s hand firmly. “There’s a hole here. We’ll have to jump.”_

_“What?” the man breathes out in disbelief. “No, I can’t—I can’t—”_

_Tom makes the leap and lands on two feet. He winces once more when the impact jolts his wound, feeling fresh blood seeping through the cloth, then says to the man, “You’re going to have to jump! Just jump!”_

_The man begins shaking his head and wiping at his eyes. “But I can’t—the dust from the—I can’t see—!”_

_A loud crash echoes from behind the man, and Tom looks beyond him to see rubble inching closer and closer to them._

_“You need to trust me,” Tom promises. God, he hopes he’s telling the truth. “Jump!”_

_The man inhales, backs up, then jumps in a single bound. Tom catches the man before he falls backward into the hole, then orders, “Don’t let go of me! Don’t let go!”_

_Tom turns toward the light at the entrance of the tunnel, dragging the man with him, and doesn’t look back until they emerge back into sunlight._

~

Tom wakes before dawn breaks, blinks the sleep away, and immediately thinks of William Schofield.

William Schofield, who is probably also waking up this very moment to greet the morning sun over the hill.

The letter remained tethered to his hand all night because he fell asleep running his eyes over and over Will’s name until he memorized the curve of his L’s and the flourish of his F. He closed and opened his eyes with Will’s name imprinted onto his eyelids. He doesn’t think he can go back to a time when he didn’t know the shape of Will’s letters.

If he pedals fast enough, he can make it in time.

He looks once more at _Sincerely, William Schofield_ , puts the letter safely into his pocket, and slips quietly out the back door.

~

The morning air is crisp and dry in his lungs. On a different day, in a different mood, he might’ve felt the sharpness was too much to bear. Today, however…today, he doesn’t think it’s enough to have the sting coursing through every inch of his body. His blood rushes to catch up with his breathing and he feels so free, so liberated, so—

It’s quiet when he reaches the hill. The sky is barely pink, and Will is barely visible in the distance, his figure only made obvious by his shadow. Tom considers calling his name but doesn’t want to disturb the fragile peace. One wrong move and it’ll shatter the illusion.

He walks until he’s an arm’s length away, then stops. If Will is surprised by Tom’s sudden presence, he doesn’t show it.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Will asks, still looking out at the horizon. Some orange has joined the pink in the sky and it reflects onto Will’s face warmly.

“You told me you like watching the sunrise from the hillside.” Tom doesn’t care about the sunrise, much prefers watching Will’s profile. He traces his eyes over the curve of Will’s nose and the steady line of Will’s jaw.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Tom doesn’t look away, doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “That day, you couldn’t see well. How’d you know it was me, then?”

The stiffness in Will’s shoulders leaves as fast as it comes. Yellow mixes in with the orange and pink before Will says, “I remembered your voice. It was the one that led me out. How could I forget?”

Will finally, finally looks at Tom and asks, “How did you find out?”

Tom takes out the letter, being careful to not crinkle it any further, and hands it over.

Will’s previously neutral face comes alive with surprise, then confusion, then embarrassment. It’s a sight to behold. “How did you get this?”

“Erinmore sent it to me.” Tom grins. “Though I reckon he wasn’t supposed to.”

Will looks bewildered for a few more seconds before realization passes over his face, softening his features. He sighs. “Smith. I told him not to meddle.”

Tom laughs. He’s really liking this expressive Will. “Don’t say that, otherwise I would’ve never found out it was you.” He lingers on the thought, one that makes him unexpectedly sad, then asks, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Will suddenly looks uncomfortable. He hovers a hand over the site of Tom’s wound. “I thought maybe you blamed me for it,” he says, darting his eyes away.

 _What?_ Tom blinks in disbelief. “Are you daft? You’re not the bastard who stabbed me.”

“It doesn’t matter. You should’ve left us and gone home.”

“You know I couldn’t have done that.”

“But you could’ve—” Will cuts off with a desperate choke. The last word hangs heavily and unspoken in the air. “I wouldn’t have been able to live with that.”

Tom is shocked silent by the sorrow spreading throughout Will’s face. He’s really felt this way, all this time. “It wouldn’t have been your fault.”

“Then…” Will heaves a sigh. “Why didn’t you come back to the ranch?”

Now, it’s Tom’s turn to feel uncomfortable. He really didn’t expect Will to blame himself for something so utterly ridiculous. He also doesn’t want to admit his own stupidity, but he supposes that after all they’ve been through, after all the torment that Will has endured, Will deserves the truth.

So, Tom mumbles half-heartedly, “I thought…you and Lauri…well, you know.” He stops and flushes, hoping Will won’t make him finish the sentence.

Will widens his eyes, and after what seems like an eternity, bursts out laughing. He laughs and laughs and laughs, until Tom begins to feel annoyed.

“Oh, come on, it’s not that funny.”

“All this time, I thought you hated me,” Will wheezes out, wiping the tears away from the corner of his eyes. “Or you were being polite, or you were just humoring me, or—I don’t know, but I never thought—oh, my Lord.”

Tom crosses his arms and grumbles, “I’m highly considering hating you right now.” He’s never going to live this down, is he?

“Turns out, you were just a bloody idiot.”

“Hey—”

“A bloody idiot that I can’t stop thinking about,” Will punctuates his laughing with a loud exhale, then a final chuckle. “God knows why.”

“Do you—” Tom gulps, annoyance all gone. Joe’s voice rings distantly in his memory: _don’t jump to conclusions_. “Do you really mean that?”

“I said you reminded me of my wife,” Will says fondly, patiently. “What do you think?”

“But I won’t…” Tom needs to say this right. He needs to get it right. “I won’t ever be able to replace her.”

“I’d never ask you to.” Will tucks a curl behind Tom’s ear; Tom originally wanted to get his hair cut, but he thinks he’ll keep it long after all. “I loved her. I love you now.”

“Oh.” _I love you now. I love you now._ He’s not imagining it. It’s not just in his head. “Okay.”

“You don’t need to say it back if you don’t want to.”

As the sun fully rises to welcome the new day, Will intertwines his fingers with Tom’s, warm and safe and real, their heartbeats becoming one, and that’s when Tom finally figures it out.

Alive. That’s how William Schofield makes him feel—alive. So very, very alive.

Tom smiles, tightens his hold, and doesn’t let go.

~

_Epilogue_

_June 30_

Will has Tom flushed against the marble— _marble!_ —column next to the mayor’s portrait, one leg pressed against Tom’s pelvis and both hands pinning Tom’s arms down when Tom reminds him, breathlessly, “The ceremony’s ‘bout to start.”

Will leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses along Tom’s jaw, then turns Tom’s head to plant a longer kiss behind Tom’s ear. “They can wait. You’re the man of the hour, after all.”

“But.” Tom squeezes his eyes shut with a moan as Will does something miraculous with his tongue. He had no idea Will was going to be like _this_ when he first imagined those strong arms on him, back when they met for the first—well, second time. And he’s imagined it. Many times. “Can’t we at least move somewhere else?”

Will stops long enough to glance at the portrait. “You’re right, that is a bit of a mood-killer.” He turns those ocean-blue eyes onto Tom again, and Tom feels lost in the storm, would gladly lose himself every time. “Where shall we go?”

“I think there was an archway near the back entrance?” Tom suggests. He racks his brain, trying to ignore the heavy lust clouding his mind and remember the damned layout of the place from the tour that morning. “You know, near the gates.”

Will’s eyes brighten. “That’s good. But first—” He kisses Tom again, this time deeply on the mouth.

A low, deliberate cough rings out from behind them.

Tom pushes Will back frantically out of reflex. “Fuck me. Mackenzie. Sir.” He pulls down his shirt and pats down his hair, then feels his cheeks.

Mackenzie hovers awkwardly a few yards away. “Erinmore sent me looking for you. _God knows why_ ,” he mutters under his breath.

“We’ll be there in a minute, sir,” Will says easily. He’s still plastered against Tom’s side all while smirking openly, the bastard.

Mackenzie sighs, as if the entire world has inconvenienced him. “Make it quick.” He’s about to leave when he tacks on, seemingly begrudgingly, “Congratulations, Blake. You did something honorable.”

Tom widens his eyes. Did he hear that correctly? “Thank you, sir,” he says quickly, before Mackenzie can take it back.

Mackenzie nods firmly.

“Does this mean I can visit Will at your ranch, sir?” Tom tries.

“Don’t count on it.”

Well. It was worth a shot.

**Author's Note:**

> This got more and more cheesy as I edited it but I wanted to give Tom the life and love he deserves, even if he’s a bit of a dumbass and can’t understand when someone is outright telling him he likes him. Then again, Will is also a bit of a dumbass in this so…they can be dumbasses together.


End file.
